Digital World
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: Their world was once filled with light, and warmth. Both of those things are fading now, and an unlikely group of heroes are set upon the path to find the meaning behind this - before their world is lost.
1. The Light of Digivolution

**A/N:** Written for the Diversity Writing Challenge, L17 – write and post one chapter a week until you've written 100,000 words (let's see how long I last, lol). This fic won't have much in the way of humans…hence the title.

I am using the Japanese names for digimon species…largely because of how it's baby/child/adult which is a more natural progression of growth as opposed to rookie/champion which seems to focus more specifically on fighting capacity. As for the world itself…I'm sort of making up these rules as I go. It is going to be fun. :D

* * *

**Digital World**

Chapter 1  
**_The Light of Digivolution_**

It was a dark night, again.

Chantilly wondered where the stars had gone after the cold came. Her childish mind thought it might be the chill reaching the sky, but the older piyomon scorned her. The sky was too high, they said. Elsewise their wings would have carried them to those far-seeming stars. And the sun.

They could not even fly high out of sight. Some whispered that such a feat would be possible only when the light of digivolution shone in their valley.

The parents tried to fester that belief. It kept the children from being reckless, from attempting to fly beyond their limits. But they did so anyway. Those who grew tired of waiting. Those who lost belief.

The light of digivolution had not shined bright in their valley for quite some years. Though the stars had shone then. Brightly, on the day she had hatched. That had been a warm day. There were precious few of those, now. The valley, with its thick cover of trees however bare they were, was especially cold.

It was too cold to live, year after year. But they'd hoped for at least a little light on their migration night.

Chantilly never understood how the migration day, or the length of the journey, was decided. She'd participated in two of them in total. Had she hatched earlier, she would have seen a third as well, riding on her mother's back. As it was, her mother had had to stay behind while the others flew to warmer lands. Watching her egg. Then the hatching that emerged. And the cold that…became unbearable.

The flock had come back to find the hatchling huddled in the feathers of her mother's corpse. But she was not the first to be born in such ill times. Nor was she the last. And they were the least reckless. The outcasts. The ones who did not care to see what lay beyond the cover of blue sky turned grey upon them. Who did not find their migrations an adventure. They had lived through the bitter cold that so frightened the other piyomon. They did not fear.

Perhaps that too was foolishness, because all their mothers had died in waiting the cold through. They had survived because they had been guarded. Kept safe. Wrapped in feathers and the oil and flesh underneath, all made from the data – the code that existed in everything: living, dead or existing.

The chill ate away at that data. Just like something in the sky burnt it. But though they had that knowledge, they had their experiences and their dreams. Some piyomon did not fear the sky. Others did not fear the cold.

But still, they longed for light. The light from the stars. The light of digivolution that would grant them power: a shield against the winter, and stronger, fiercer wings. They knew tales of great firebirds who had once flown the sky.

But in none of their lifetimes had one flown. And the light of digivolution, said to shine with all the radiance of the far off sun and more, had been a flickering, pale thing a long time before. Not strong enough to coax a child into an adult. Barely enough to coax a baby into childhood. And it took longer each time. The last hatchings, born just after their return from the last migration, had not yet reached that stage. Whispers had begun to rise that they never would. That the brief flicker of light that had last graced their valley had been spent. And now there was only darkness left, until the light shone again.

The eldest of all of them sighed. In the darkness, even moreso since the wind did not stir, the noise seemed especially loud. 'Light or not, we must start our flight tonight.'

The piyomon chattered in worry. Only for the youngest ones, the lack of light was off little concern. Their last migration had begun in almost-darkness as well.

_Almost darkness,_ Chantilly thought, _not pitch black._

And that was what surrounded them. The elder stood upon the stone of speech but they could not see him. Feathers scratched her; a neighbour standing too close. And her left side felt especially close. Another, standing too far.

But they could do nothing. Not yet. All the light they could create, they would use when the flock rose up. To light their ascent. To set their initial course.

And none of them wished for the forest in the valley to burn away to a crisp before their return.

The wood had been collected weeks prior, and kept safely so that rain nor snow would soak it. That day the stronger ones had brought it out. From the stone of speech, the elder would fire his _Magical Fire_ and the wood would catch light.

There was just enough wood so that the cold would put the fire out before the trees were caught. As it was every year. And Chantilly, still young though she was fortunate enough to have reached the child stage where she could fly on her own, did not know that the wood collected grew in size every year.

But she did know no migration before had been done without the help of a single star.

'The prayer begins,' the elder spoke over the chatter, and Chantilly froze.

The prayer was a prayer of safety, of warmth, and of light. Where they asked for a migration that would steal none of them away. Where they asked for the cold to slink back to the shadows whence it came, to stop eating them alive. Where they asked for strength and prosperity, for growth: for all that the light of digivolution represented and offered to them.

'…and so may it be.'

She clasped her talons and bowed her head. Though she could make out no face or form around her, she was sure the others were similarly posed. Thus was their tradition, their prayer that marked the start of their migration.

'_Magical Flame!_'

Chantilly unclasped her talons and raised her head. The green spirals of fire exploded from above the stone of speech. They lit the elder's weary face a moment before they spread too far, too thin.

A moment later, the wood crackled and caught light.

The piyomon arranged themselves into rows. The fastest ones at the front and behind: to scout ahead and keep watch behind. To catch any who began to waver and lose their path. The slowest ones, and the ones who carried baby yokomon with them, were in the centre, where they would be the most protected.

Chantilly took her place not quite at the back, but close to it. The elder remained on the stone of speech. He would be the first to fly. The one to lead, until the scouters were sent ahead of him.

He raised his head and spread his wings – and then froze as light, not pale orange and cackling like the fire around them but a pure white, exploded in the distance.

'The light of digivolution,' the piyomon whispered. 'It has come.' It faded before the words, but they had all seen.

They looked amongst themselves. Which of them would be graced. Which of them would evolve? The yokomon strained their heads to see. The oldest piyomon as well. They'd tired of their childhood form, their limitations. And the elder, their leader, most of all.

He was the one who began to finally glow. Whose skin changed. Who was replaced, for a moment, by code that none of them could read. Who became a shimmering form of light that began to grow, and then redefine itself.

The cheers began. Though most of them craved the firebird form, the ascension to adulthood had been something not witnessed for a long time – not in any of their memories.

And then they froze.

It was no firebird standing before them, aglow in the ring of fire meant to give them light.

Chantilly had never seen such a digimon. The legs were so huge and the wings small. Red it was, yes, but hardly a bird. The elder had become…something other than the great firebirds of legends.

The great monster shuddered, then fell sideways off the stone of speech. The piyomon broke formation and crowded around as the elder curled, huddling in to himself.

Seeing his flock surround him, he smiled weakly. His beak had grown as well, and now they were lined with thirty teeth. 'It seems I feel the cold more…strongly now.'

The piyomon closest to him helped him up. He stood, double their height and width, most of his colour gone. The digivolution had stripped him of that. What remained was a little red tipping his wings, tail and beard. The rest of him was white. They could see that even with the flames that surrounded them.

'We must fly,' one of the other piyomon, one of the scouters, urged. 'The flight will give you strength, and our destination the warmth you need.'

The elder groaned on his feet, but spread his stubby wings.

After a moment, it was plain his wings could not fly.

The elder lowered them. 'I cannot fly,' he said. 'I must brave the growing chill this time, I'm afraid.'

The piyomon began to chatter again: a mix of fear and anger. The light of digivolution it must have been, and yet it had cruelly stripped the elder of his ability to fly. They had never heard of such a thing. And their faith was sorely shaken.

'The thicker pelt will see me through,' the elder said. 'Fly! You must fly tonight!'

Finally, after much urging, the scouters took off. The rest rearranged themselves into their rows, the slowest and the ones with children in the centre again. Chantilly cast one final glance at the elder, at his aged and sorrowful place, before taking her place in the penultimate row.

They rose in the air, row by row, and just as the scouters began to fly east, the flame below them flickered out.

Chantilly looked down. There was nothing to see save a blanket of darkness where the valley stood.

The piyomon still chattered. They flew more slowly than they normally would. Perhaps they hoped the elder would rise and join them, take his place at the helm. But he did not. And the whisper spread amongst their ranks. About the light. The light of digivolution.

It had been far away. Chantilly looked north, where it had come from. There was a small light there: a speck in the darkness. She could have mistaken it for a star if she weren't in the air, if she had seen it from the valley floor. But the trees had hidden it then.

It was the temple, she guessed. The temple on the mountain. Where only the angels went.

And she was not the only one to come to that conclusion.

'Of course, it is the angels who are blessed by the Gods.'

Chantilly remembered the tales. The last time the light of digivolution had shown, it had been strongest to the north. It had been for the angels then as well, or so the mutters went.

The bitterness was especially strong that night, leaving their elder behind.


	2. Night Prayer at Angels' Temple

**A/N:** Looks like the first four-five chapters will be introductory – the characters start off too far apart. :D

* * *

**Digital World**

Chapter 2  
**_Night Prayer at Angels' Temple_**

They had been at the altar when the light had shone, praying, as they always did in the darkness of the night, to the statues of great angels from long ago.

Their names were now lost; it had been that long since one of theirs had reached that level of digivolution. That long since the light of digivolution had shone strongly enough to transcend perfection. That long since the light of digivolution had shone strongly enough to even _reach_ perfection. Their halls were filled with puttimon and cupimon and kudamon and plotmon and patamon…and a few scarce Adult level digimon amongst them. Four guarded the gates: four d'arcmon, one facing each of the four directions. Because their temple was on the mountain peak, they were vulnerable on all sides.

Those d'arcmon were old. They'd been there for as long as Mikael could remember, before he'd hatched. Certainly long before his adulthood. He'd been a poyomon then. There weren't any now, amongst the fresh digimon. Just puttimon. No yukimibotamon or nyaromon that became the plotmon. No poyomon or tokomon that became the patamon. No-one even knew what kudamon's previous forms were: there was only one and he was older than even the d'arcmon. So old that his freshhood was forgotten to him.

He sat on the altar now, his tail curled inwards so his forelegs rested atop his holy ring. Though there were few who had reached a higher digivolution state, he still ruled. And he sat where the sun was brightest in the day: where it was lightest. In the hopes that the light of digivolution would finally shine upon him, perhaps. The restless amongst them whispered that. Whispered that he was afraid. Afraid one who had achieved a higher form than him would upstart him – or _should_. Those adult-level digimon guarded or travelled, mostly. Partially for their own protection, elsewise they would be swept up into a battle of politics they wanted no part in – or feared that they did. Also partially because they were the strongest, the most resilient: the only ones with wings strong enough to carry them off the mountain and back again.

Perhaps it was fortune, or ill-fortune, that their place of residence was ill-received. The birds in the valley left them alone, and that was a mercy. Or not. Because they were locked in an eternal conflict with the demons: those who worshipped the darkness as they worshipped the light. They had a similar problem of late: there were few who could make the flight and therefore few who could fight. And their clashes kept the number of adults on both sides even lower.

And the last time a gate had been breached had been in only their leader's memories…and the silent d'arcmon that were, to most, just protectors in the shadow of the outside world.

And even the adults who passed them by time and again exchanged few words. Because they'd been there so long, in that role.

Their leader had been there for even longer, but he was always inside, on the alter: where they prayed, where they asked for advice, where they were given it.

That night, like all nights, was their time for prayer. The small and many in number gathered below the platform, on the white tiles polished just that afternoon until they shown. What little light their data gave reflected off the surface of those tiles – and the pillars, made a similar way, so that even in the night when there were no moon or stars above to shine on them, they were, in brightness, bathed. Those adults there – except the d'arcmon who never left their vigil, knelt on the lower part of the platform.

It had nothing to do with honour. It was the light of digivolution, always that light. It came from above, and those at higher levels required a stronger burst to transcend their current limits. The simple laws of the world dictated where they stood or knelt, and why. Except kudamon, who'd seen many times the light of digivolution shine, but not strongly enough to rip his long childhood away.

It caused some unrest, at times. When Mikael had been a patamon he'd heard many times from the other children: how the kudamon was too old, too wasted now. How there were younger angels that had further advanced: younger angels more fitting to rule – and, maybe, even to help them triumph over the demons that struggled to lay siege upon them. And they whispered that kudamon sent the adults away or stood them outside to protect his own position – but when Mikael had evolved into an angemon, he realised that hadn't been the case at all. The leader had nothing to do with his decision. It was restlessness. It was a want: to protect, to stretch his wings. It was a fear that he would be caught up in something, or nothing, if he stayed too long. It was suddenly being too big to live in peace in the palace, protected by others.

There was nothing that night but the darkness, though. It was a sacred night – not for them, but for the birds in the valley. Their migration night. The demons had never yet interrupted them: they were not enemies of the birds as they were of the angels. Some were even friends – but not these birds. Or not yet. They did not fly to the dark lands. They flew to the forests that grew around the ring of fire. In the summer those forests were bare and grey, all green burnt away. But in the winter they were lush and green: the heat from the ring of fire combatting the chill that spread everywhere else.

The adults could fly above the clouds and avoid that chill in flight. The chill that would otherwise freeze their wings and fell them. Except the d'arcmon. No-one was quite sure how they bore the winter, but they did. And the temple shut out the cold for its inhabitants.

So there was no discomfort to collect in the spacious prayer room and kneel to the statues that lined the back wall: two, a female and a male, who stood, reaching almost the ceiling with their height and with wings the likes of which no living angel had witnessed. Then two kneeling, one on each side. Both had eight wings and were wrapped in cloaks. One had a sword. The other had a bow. One male; one female. And lastly, there were two more: a figure that did not stand tall on two legs like the rest of them but on four legs like a pegasmon – except it was not a pegasmon. There was one of those – gone to the land of light, last Mikael had heard. And astride the Pegasus-like creature was another eight-winged angel with a symbol carved atop his chest.

They were the angels that no longer walked the plane of the digital world. The angels that they worshipped. To whom they prayed. The angels that had, in ancient times, set down the laws that governed them – laws other species had begun to turn away from, but they still, diligently, followed.

It made them strong, lasting. It also made them weak. Because only the adults could enforce laws and things had digressed to the point where the one with power created them and saw them followed. And they had no stronger power – they were adults at best, and so were those who opposed them, opposed law. And the demons that chased them everywhere and thinned their numbers so that they could barely maintain a stance against them when the flocks of dark wings came, were adults as well.

The light of digivolution had long since denied them the next level: the level of perfection. And, to many like their leader, like a good number of the cupimon in the mass, even that was denied. Even the light itself was rare: it had not shone in their cornerstone of sky for some years and what it left behind could only coax a handful of babies into children.

And when even the fresh no longer grew to their baby forms, it meant the light had all but faded from that cornerstone of sky. And there were too many puttimon now. Too many. Far more then had appeared the last time Mikael had been for the night prayers.

And the nursery was filled with eggs that had not yet hatched.

He found that inexplicably sad: those unhatched eggs. And their parents: watching, waiting. Except when their duties around the temple called, or the prayers. Perhaps it was their faces. Perhaps it was just the fact that they hadn't hatched.

When the light shone, unexpectedly on that night, they remained unhatched.

He didn't understand it. Kudamon was on the altar, about to begin the recitation of the prayers. He, Mikael, was on one knee in prostration amongst the other adults there. Most angemon like himself. Most the armed force of the temple, who fought until they fell when the demons came. Once, there had been less of them who stayed to fight and more who flew about the world, settling fights and enforcing the rules that had once governed them all. Now to flights were only to certain places: to those who still worshipped the old angels, the old gods. They were all small settlements now: tucked in certain corners of the world: on mountaintops, on little islands, in the centre of the sea where the light penetrated the blanket of water above… He'd come from the water, drenched and cold by the time he'd flown through the doors. But the temple had warmed him. And what little chill that remained would soon depart, he thought.

He wondered now if the water had somehow attracted the light. Even if it was unlikely. Almost impossible.

But nonetheless, the light had shone above, outside. It set their windows aglow and the quiet room was suddenly filled with murmurs of excitement as hands rose. They didn't need to fly, they thought. The light would fill the room. The light would bathe them all. Fortunate it was that the light had come during the prayers: during the one time their entire populace – save the d'arcmon – were in the same room.

Except the eggs as well, but eggs required very little of that light to digivolve.

But the celebrations started too soon, because the light did not spread, but came together. And it did not strike any of those eager hands reaching up to the sky, but one whose both hands were gripping his golden rod.

They struck Mikael and he felt his body burn and change: his code twist, and grow. He felt the light come – more and more when his body shuddered, as though the digivolution was thirstily drinking all available to it. At first he was so shocked he simply knelt – but then he recalled. Recalled his digivolution – the last of the adults amongst them. Recalled all those still waiting. _Go to them! To them! Leave me!_

But a part of him wanted that digivolution. A part of him wanted to go stronger, to transcend his level: to reach perfection.

And transcend and reach he did. The light finally faded, giving ways to gasps of awe and a few tears. No-one else had changed. No-one else had digivolved. His change had sucked the light dry, it seemed.

But there was no resentment. Not in that moment; the resentment, the jealousy – those would come in later times. Because, to everyone else in that room, the light faded to show one of those statues they worshipped come to life: the male on his knees with eight wings: wrapped in robe and sword.


	3. Hunt for the Lucky Dragon

**A/N:** That was cutting it a little too fine. :D Next time, I'm doing this first thing on Saturday. But here is the next chapter, and our last protagonist will make its debut in the next chapter.

Just to address the point of capitalising digimon species, the reason I haven't is because I'm naming individual members of that species. In cases where the species and the individual are named the same, having them both in capital would be quite confusing. Eg. there's a chuumon called Chuumon in the next chapter. It's less confusing when it's one main character for a species like in digimon canon – the Chosens' partners are usually exclusive. Because it's an uncommon way of doing this, I try to only do it in cases like this where the distinction between the species and the name is important.

* * *

**Digital World**

Chapter 3  
**_Hunt for the Lucky Dragon_**

The light had faded, but the danger for them had just begun.

Deep in their underground cavern, only the moss glowed. Not even the sacred light of digivolution could light it up but they could sense it anyway. It's power – even though it was so far off. To the east, where the mountains rose up. Far from this barren land they'd made their home.

It suited them, because few were aware – aware that under the dry land where nothing grew was softer soil and trickles from streams far below the earth. It had taken them a lot of work and trust to hollow out: to build a little village beneath the ground without there being a hint on the surface. A drimogemon had helped them, creating the tunnels and the wide-enough space they could stand and walk and work in. He had evolved before he'd finished, which had turned out to be good fortune for them: the giromon was able to manipulate data to the extent that he'd created a source of never-ending food and medical supplies for them. But the evolution had been unstable. Not enough of the light had gone in to him, and even the decrease in size wasn't enough to keep his data bound.

His remains became the soil that nourished them and they remained, hidden, sealing off the last connection to the light above themselves.

And then they hid, the reminders of the bloody battle that had forced them underground fading agonizingly slowly with time.

It had not been the first time they'd had to hide. It had only been the longest hiding period. And that was not owed to how they hid, but to the absence of the light shining. They hadn't been sure before, but they were sure now. Even their little ones realised it. Giromon had given them that as well: the light that had been absorbed into his body. They owed their young ones – their chicomon – to him. They owed their current safety to him.

They owed the fear and destruction their clan had faced so many times through history to the light of digivolution. Though it made them grow, it was a small reward for the numbers they lost. The v-mon and v-dramon dragged away in chains or destroyed. The chibimon locked up in cages and hung as close to the sun as their captors dared, until their data either shrivelled up or transformed. Just because of who they were, what they represented – _they_ knew it was false, that the so-called victory dragons could not call the light to its greatest shine. Giromon's digivolution would not have been imperfect if that were the case. And none of their clan still living remembered the war before the last. They only remembered the tales past down from the last survivors.

It was cruel. It was unfair. And now, all of them were frozen in fear again, waiting for the wave to sweep them up again.

It was something about the light. It had to be; there was no other explanation for why they were safely hidden between intervals but as soon as it shone, those drowning in greed would be at their front door. There was no other explanation for why they still believed their species could give them that something nobody else could.

If they really could have, they would fight for their freedom instead of hide. But they hadn't been allowed to gain that height, that prowess. Child was the highest level they had now; adult was the highest they had ever achieved. Before that, in the times where they still had the adults amongst them, their enemies had come with perfect and ultimate level digimon. They didn't come anymore. Whether it was because they'd grown conceited or they'd dwindled out…none of them knew. None of them cared to know. If there was a way to be eternally sure of their safety, they would accept. Otherwise, they could only wait to flee fight.

And when the ground above their heads began to tremble, they knew it was time.

Their escape route was small, and it would be small going. It was conceitedness, again. Their enemies were (or so they presumed) yet to realise how a good number of them escaped. But still, some had to stay. They had to pretend they were all that were left, so rest could escape. And they could not be noble in their choice, no matter how they abhorred it. They couldn't send the women and infants and stand like the adult males they would never become. No species was viable with only males.

They loathed the idea of sacrificing their women and children, but there was no choice. At least they could choose to not sacrifice entire families – though it didn't change much in retrospect. In seclusion, they were far too close.

Valour held his youngest son for what might be the last time, but he could have had any other baby in his lap and it would not have been much different. There had been much inbreeding. Much love spread. Much parenting spread. Until the light that giromon had left them finally died out, and the last few eggs went cold, unhatched. They would have to stay as well. They could not afford the extra baggage. They were in a corner now, far from the mossy glow. They would be found, eventually. But at least they wouldn't have to watch them crushed underfoot.

The chicomon in his lap was one of the last eggs to hatch. So small…smaller than the other chicomon, and unable to form a sound. But he'd survived. For months they hadn't been sure he would survive. Clarity had tended to him diligently, unable to surrender him. No mother was willing to surrender their child, but they had to.

But they'd all agreed it wouldn't be that fragile child. It would not be Chrome. And so it was Valour. Valour saying goodbye to his son – to all the children as they crowded around those who would be staying behind. Clarity had stood up when the first tremor had come. Her face was tense. She was taking Chrome with her, but she was losing many other babies – and many friends. Still, she stood. Helped uncover the hole. Started ushering the children who would not be staying through, after the v-mon who had gone through first to scout the way. Other children – children who'd had to come into adulthood without the evolution that marked that passage, followed in between.

Valour set Chrome down on his feet and sent him with the stragglers. Nobody tried to run. Nobody tried to stay behind. It had been a long time, but a long time without hope. They knew what they had to do, to keep on living. And they knew they would never find peace at the end of the road.

And then Clarity was gone as well, the last of them, and those children that remained, those v-mon, packed the hole firmly up. It was difficult, because the tremors had grown even worse and knocked soil out, but they managed it. Their firm heads were up to the task.

They were not up to the task to stop the onslaught once the ground above them cracked, but they had known that.

It was just sad to think about what it was costing them. How endless the cycle seemed. How that giromon's sacrifice would now be in vain. How they would need another stranger with a kind heart to help them, a stranger they could be sure would not betray their number…

That had happened, before. Back when there'd been enough of them to form multiple groups. And entire groups had been wiped out with betrayal and others thinned by the continuous invasions. Now, to their knowledge, there were no more. The death of their species would soon be upon them.

Valour found he couldn't mind. It seemed a kinder answer than the cycle of fleeing and sacrifice within which they were trapped. It was just that innate desire to survive that dragged them on through darker times.

He didn't even know how the world had been before it had become like…this.

The roof collapsed. They didn't panic. They just waited. They would fight, because they could not allow themselves to be dragged or crushed without a fight. But it was a half-hearted fight because there was no hope to spur them on.

The glow moss was covered by dirt, but the sun was more than enough to light them. Too much, for Valour found it burned and he could see nothing but white. He squeezed his eyes shut and listened instead. Felt. Hit. Scratched.

They were harder than his fingers could claw or his head could scratch. And the screams, the cries – he tried not to listen to them. They weren't all their kin. Their enemies screamed as well. Battle cries. He didn't recognise them. He didn't care to recognise them. He felt bone and that was enough.

Bone was not brittle enough to crumble by a simple head-butt. But the situation had been hopeless long before that.

He only moved mechanically. Scratching and head-butting in turn and being battered by missiles and slashes and bodily assault. He waited for his death: for their death. Death would be kind.

He was caught in a grip of bone suddenly. He wondered if he would be crushed. But the grip did not tighten. It only formed a cage from which he could not escape, could not move. He tried to wriggle loose, initially. He soon gave it up. He waited to be crushed. He was, finally, thrown…but not crushed.

He opened his eyes when the light on the other side had dimmed. He was in a dark place again. There was no moss this time though, and something thick and heavy pressed on his senses. He wondered for a fleeting moment if that was death, but it could not be. It was not so uniform. He could feel something hard around his limbs. Bonds of some sort, he assumed. Restraining him. Keeping him alive.

So that was his fate, he thought dimly. To be strung as close to the sun as his captors could take him, until the light burned his life away or he made it shine.

And why would he made it shine?

He thought about all that was left of their clan, crawling through the tunnels, braving the open air and digimon they didn't know to find a new place to hide until the light shone again. Why would he subject them to another raid? Why would he make them run from whatever flimsy safe-haven they'd managed to find for themselves? How could he do such a thing?

But he dimly wondered if, when the sun slowly burned his data away, he would still think the same.


	4. In the Sewers of the Digital World

**A/N:** So much for not cutting it fine again. Today really was the last day – and I've got two chapters to do by next Sunday to keep up. Really, doing every Saturday is easier but sometimes by brain doesn't understand that… To be fair, last week I had at least four tests so my brain can be forgiven for that. :D

And introducing our final main character…which also turned out to be the hardest of them to write. Go figure.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Digital World**

Chapter 4  
**_In the Sewers of the Digital World_**

Those who hated the light lived in the sewers. Those who scavenged for the scraps thrown down to them, who lived in forced ignorance of the conflicts that occurred on the surface.

In the sewers, life was simple. Chuumon liked his life simple. He found food. He ate it, and what he couldn't eat, he carried back with him to his little hole. He did the same with water. Sometimes his hole was found. Then he'd move. Find somewhere Else. Start over. Avoid the big dwellers. Squabble with the smaller ones for scraps and spaces. And that was life. Nice and simple.

Until the roof of the sewer cracked and light streamed in.

There was mass panic. The big and small all scattered, searching for darkness. The cracks continued to grow. The light continued to flood. The big ones roared and the sides began to crumble.

The little ones who should have been safe in their little holes found themselves splashed with sewage.

Chuumon shook himself. The smell wasn't so bad but he didn't like being wet for too long and that had been a dousing. And the food…

He cast it a forlorn glance as a stray tail knocked a bite of cheese away, then scampered out as something sharper approached.

Food wasn't worth losing data over. Unless he was starving. Which he wasn't.

He joined the rest of the crowd.

**.**

Finally, the crowd dimmed. The larger ones forced themselves out and the small could find their little holes again. Or make them. And pick up all the scraps that had been scattered. Left behind.

It was a goldmine of things. The cheese were the first on Chuumon's list and he lamented the fact that there were few decently sized holes out of the flooding light. Luckily he could carry more than his weight and he dragged the cheese along, searching.

A cloth. That helped carry the cheese. And keep it dry. And keep the sewerage taste getting in to it.

A stuck to help carry the cloth like a bundle.

Scraps from a picture book. He brightened when he recognised one of them. His treasure. He tucked it neatly away inside his felt.

And then he stumbled, eyes burning and watering with the constant light, upon a pair of sunglasses.

And that changed the outlook of things.

**.**

Chuumon had been born in the light, but it hadn't been long before he and his family had relocated into the sewers. He didn't remember the outside world at all. The only light he'd remembered was that which burned. He'd learned to stay away from it. The burns had changed him. Changed his colour. Made him swell and grow.

He didn't want things to change. It was fine, the way things were. Nice and simple.

But there was so much light now and he was stumbling along, searching for food because there was nothing in his little hidey-hole and the hidey-hole itself was gone.

But when he tried on the sunglasses, the burning was gone too.

Chuumon blinked. It looked like normal. Without the light. Nice and dark and bearable. And now he could see other things as well. Colour. Everything in the sewers were black and white but now the cracks looked like they were lined in other colours. He didn't know his colours sadly so he couldn't say which. But they were different. Bright – but the sunglasses dulled it. He peeked over the rim, winced, and resolved not to do that again. Without the glasses, staring at them hurt. Staring at light hurt.

But with the glasses he didn't. He stopped when there was no more cheese. The rest had been trampled or take by others. Other chuumon perhaps. Or other digimon in general. Just because the chuumon favoured cheese, it didn't mean it was taken only by them. They all needed food. They couldn't be too fussy.

But while looking at the sunglasses, all the food had been taken away and he only had the cheese he'd initially found.

And no nice hidey-hole to go back to.

**.**

It was an option. Climbing up. With the sunglasses, he wouldn't be restricted to a little place that had broken apart – however that had happened. It would be more complicated, Chuumon mourned. He liked uncomplicated.

But there wouldn't ever be a shortage of cheese up there. And that was a lovely thought.

They'd moved into the sewers because the light had begun to burn. It had turned cruel. And then they'd become scavengers. Searching. Half-starving.

And now that their sanctuary was breaking, they'd grow even hungrier.

He walked on. Maybe there'd be something else. But no. everyone was stumbling half-blind, searching, dragging their finds along. He saw another chuumon jump on a numamon, teeth bared, fighting for the other's scraps.

He shivered. His scraps were valuable.

He climbed the nearest wall then and there.

**.**

Outside the sewer was so…big. He was lost. No sense of direction. Very little sense of recognition.

It was also cold but he'd been able to wrap himself in an extra bit of that cloth he'd found and that had done well.

There were things in the ground taller than he was. He touched one. It bent, and then whacked him in the face. Not hard, but hard enough to be uncomfortable. He glared at it and snapped his large fore-teeth. It did nothing back.

He walked carefully. So near the cracks he could easily fall back in. He carried his cheese and that proved to be the hardest part. Those things in the ground kept on tangling. Providing extra resistance.

And there was so much of whatever it was.

After a while, it got monotonous. Like the sewer.

And Chuumon had gotten used to walking in that new place.

Maybe the world outside the sewer wasn't so complicated after all?

**.**

At some point, he stopped and ate some cheese. He was hungry, and when he was hungry, he ate. When he was tired, he slept as well. He wasn't that tired yet. He walked on.

Those things growing from the ground seemed to get even taller. By the time he stopped for another nibble of cheese they were over twice his height and far more numerous.

And he hadn't bumped into any digimon either. The world was really big, he marvelled, to have not seen a sign of life in all the time he'd been walking.

He didn't feel lonely though. The sewers had lots of digimon, but no companionship.

He did miss a nice pleasant hole though.

He couldn't seem to find any.

And when, finally, he was too tired to walk any more, he had to settle for collapsing where he stood.

**.**

He heard a strange sound and he forced his eyes open, scrambling for his leftover cheeses. It was dark suddenly – with the sunglasses on he couldn't see at all but he didn't dare take them off because he knew how bright it would be if he did – and it was cold. His makeshaft toga wasn't good enough anymore. He could barely move.

And there was the sound of things being torn.

He tried to run. He stumbled. Fell. Was covered by falling – somethings. Quickly – though it felt so long – the sound passed, and Chuumon squirmed out. He still couldn't see. He still moved stiffy but he moved. That sound could come back. A big monster, probably. It might eat him.

He shivered.

And then he stumbled in to something and he instantly brightened. A hole! He only wished he could see it, to know how cosy it was, and if it had been claimed. It didn't smell like it had, but seeing would know for sure. He, tentatively, peeked under his sunglasses. He still saw nothing. The world was pitch black.

He didn't understand. But in the hole he should be safe. The big never found the little in holes.

He fell asleep, and the next time he opened his eyes, it was morning. And the cold and dark was gone. He was warm again. And he could see.

He looked at his crack. It was far too small to do anything but sleep in. He'd been lucky no-one had stolen his little bag that night.

He had another nibble of cheese and continued walking.

Somewhere, there'd be a perfect hole for him.


	5. The First Night in Flight

**A/N:** Still about six days behind but still technically within the once a week updates. Sometimes loopholes are a game-saver. I guess I won't be catching that part up until May…seeing as camp is coming up.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Digital World**

Chapter 5  
**_The First Night in Flight_**

It was chilled, but the frequent motions of their wings stopped the cold from clinging to them. But the little ones, those without wings, weren't so fortunate. They trembled on their mothers' backs. Chantilly felt for them, but there was nothing to be done. It was either carry them through the cold now, or leave them behind to freeze over the winter.

When they stopped for the night, the little ones were ice cold and barely shaking.

The females – and Chantilly joined them – quickly huddled them in the middle and crowded them. Their body warmth was minimal, but it would be enough. Hopefully. It was usually enough. But it grew colder by the migration. When would they reach the point where it _wouldn't _be enough? When they took flight the next morning burying the young behind? Having given up their own heat for no result at all?

The males took to the sky almost as soon as the females were settled. They searched for food. But it was a sparse plain. Blades of grass seemed to be all to find. And indeed that was all they ate, when the males came back. One complained about having seen something moving. He had dirt on his beak.

No-one really knew if it had been wistful thinking or a reality. And, in any case, one small insect or rodent wouldn't have fed all of them.

**.**

The night on the plains was uncomfortable. They were too used to forests: to trees they could climb and sleep upon. There was nothing but a few strands of grass. The rest they'd eaten, hungry after the flight.

And they lay awake in the night, staring at the sky.

There were stars, but pale and blurred by the cold. It reached that high. There were a few whispered tales for the little ones they crowded around. Chantilly tuned them out: she was too old to hear them but too young to say them themselves. She simply let her mind drift, hoping the sparse words that crept in, digging up those memories of past migrations, past tales, would coax her to sleep.

They did, eventually.

But it felt like no time had passed at all before the call to awake was made.

Chantilly shook herself. In the warmer months, that action would allow all her feathers to settle into the most comfortable place, but it was too cold for that. She brushed them carefully with her talons and cast a glance at the children. They slept, still. The colour had mostly returned to them.

That was good. It would be a similarly long flight today.

What grass remained was collected by the males. They all fed, their bellies still aching for food. Grass had very little data in it but dirt was a sort of data that did not agree with them. There was little other choice.

The silver lining was that they'd be back to trees the next night. Not many. Not enough to last there for more than a couple of days. But it was a good stopover place. One of the best in their week-long flight and it was good timing as well, for the night after they wouldn't be able to sleep at all. There was only desert sand.

Chantilly chewed at the grass, then helped get the children back on to their parents' backs before getting back in formation.

The sun was upon them but so distant, so cold, when they got back into the air for the second day of flight.

**.**

The second day was supposed to be as uneventful as the first but when the sun was directly upon them, they were attacked.

Perhaps they weren't the main target, but it mattered little. They saw the black shapes coming towards them and they scattered. Some children fell and their parents dove for them. Their formation broke. The temporary leader yelled orders but they were lost. Some attacked: the strongest Magical Fire they could manage, combined.

Some of the enemies screeched, but others swiped their talons. Chantilly ducked and threw her own Magical Fire. They caught the talon which swiped back at her.

She wasn't able to dodge that one and she fell. One of the other biyomon reached for her, but they were knocked out of the air by a tail.

Instead, a black streak approached, rapidly gaining on her descent.

She stared, wide-eyed, unable to muster up another Magical Fire to attack.

The black formed wings, and long arms and hind legs. And eyes. Red eyed.

They blurred.

**.**

Chantilly groaned. For the moment, she left her eyes closed. Her body pained and her head thumped. She could only hope she'd been fortunate enough to fall into a place with lots of greenery. A place with enough data to help her mend.

And she could only hope that they'd all managed to come back together without losing any of their number.

She opened her eyes.

She'd been wrong on both accounts. There was still only grass around her and she was alone. Even as she struggled to her feet there were nowhere to be found. Either they'd fell elsewhere, had flown off thinking her for dead, or…they had died themselves.

Dead digimon left few imprints. She may never find out which it was.

She took a deep breath, then coughed. And then she couldn't stop coughing and, with that, tears came. Tears that she couldn't hold back, that she didn't even _try_ to hold back.

Her friends, her _family_ could be dead and there probably wasn't a way to know.

Finally, when the tears had frozen and when the cold had numbed the pain and made her stiff all over, she began to walk. She hoped it was in the direction of trees. Or, if they were still alive and well, the other biyomon. She hoped the gods were smiling down upon them know. Especially the creator, Fangolongmon. But it was unlikely. Since the days of old, it was told that Fangolongmon's blessings caused the light of digivolution to shine upon them. And their collective faith had caused it to dim and die.

It was also said that Fangolongmon was the source of warmth in the world. A source that was deeper than mere data. Similar to how leaves were more appetizing than grass, even though both were made from data. How eggs hatched into different sorts of digimon, though they were all data. How digimon were able to digivolve differently, even if their previous form was the same as another's.

That reminded her of the Elder. Alone in the forest, waiting for the true cold to set in. Possibly waiting for his death: waiting as that frost ate away at his data, at his soul.

But, if he was going to die, at least the trees of their home would remember. Those who had died that day would be forgotten, scattered amongst the grass they barely grazed.

Chantilly dragged herself on. The movement loosened up her feathers and made the pain come back, kissing the frost-plugged pores. It was cruel, too cruel. If she could fly, she would. Or she wouldn't. She couldn't bear the thought of flying alone, in an empty sky. Them biyomon had always flown together.

But walking was so dull, and increasingly painful. Finally, she staggered on to her stomach and lay there, a pink blemish in the brown landscape tinged with green.

Hopefully, someone would find her.

Even those black, vicious things. Because they'd, at least be able to put an end to her wondering.

In her heart though, she wished for her comrades: for the other biyomon, colouring the sky in pink against the washed out sun. If they were alright. If they realised that she alone was missing from them. Injured, but alive. They were not the sort who turned away from each other if they could carry them – and she was small, for a biyomon. Barely grown. Three or four of the males could support her.

But they were also not fighters. Nor had they expected a fight. Their flock had always been left in peace. Their forest. Their migration route.

It was like a nightmare. Maybe it was. Maybe the long stretch of darkness had brought the blossoming, cruelly inept, light of digivolution to their valley.

She closed her eyes and waited for the happy ending: the transition into a dream.


	6. Coronation of the Cleric

**A/N: **why is this one lagging behind my ZEXAL fic I wonder?

* * *

**Digital World**

Chapter 6  
**_Coronation for the Cleric_**

Mikael drew away from the cupimon with the polish when he heard the cry of warning.

In a way, he was relieved. The polish was…uncomfortable. His armour was glaringly bright and, in a temple where the light dwelled, being able to think that was a rarity.

He hadn't digivolved for polish. Even if it wasn't an unconscious thing.

He had new strength and what he'd use it for was to protect his kin and make the world a better place.

He decided that, in those long hours since the night the light of digivolution had shone two days before. Then he wouldn't feel guilty that his accent to the perfect level had left eggs still cold and children still in their childhood and babies in their babyhood. Then he wouldn't feel this power of his should have been spread amongst his comrades, amongst his kin.

And the devil's army were approaching. That was what those cries meant.

**.**

He flew past the d'arcmon who did not call him back. There was no need to call him back. Here was new strength. A new weapon. Perhaps just the sight of him would have the adults who came to wage war fleeing into the gloom.

But when the devidramon appeared, it was obvious they'd already devoured some data and were drunk on that blood.

Mikael growled and drew his sword. Behind him, the angemon drew their rods and the few children who could fight their arrows. They would be the volley. The last defence.

The captain made to give the orders, then he paused.

Mikael knew why. The cleric was the one who gave the orders, and the one who'd digivolved the furthest first was the cleric.

The captain had lost his place to him.

But Mikael knew little about the battle.

'Do as you normally would,' he said, feeling a little sick to his stomach.

Here he was, having drawn his sword, and he could count the number of times he'd stood on the battlefield of his home. Far less than the captain. Far less than the d'arcmon who waited, the last defence along with the children with their arrows that they shouldn't have to carry if it weren't for the devils that sought to besiege them.

The captain nodded to his back and gave the orders. Mikael received none so he chose to keep an eye on his comrades and find a place he'd be needed.

**.**

His sword tasted blood for the first time that day. And, he suspected, he'd snatched a kill from a fellow angemon because he got a mildly angry look in return. But it didn't matter. He'd attacked because he'd felt the other would be dealt an unnecessary wound otherwise. The devils' claws weren't as kind as their staffs.

But he wasn't an angemon anymore. His new name had, finally, through a day's meditation come to him. He was a holyangemon. And it made him sad. It was an arrogant name for a species that digivolved from angemon. But he had not been the one to choose that name.

He was a holyangemon now. A holyangemon with a sword that drew blood like a staff did not. And he had a shield as well. When the unfallen devils fled he had no wounds to tend to at all. Unlike, once again, his comrades.

He felt distant from them though he received lots of thanks. Angemon were not vicious creatures by nature and only some lamented that their prey had been snatched away. Most were grateful his presence – the presence of a perfect level digimon – had saved them from more wounds, and possible defeat.

But it was unlikely his presence had saved them from defeat. They had not lost the temple walls to the devils yet.

**.**

He set off with a few angemon the next day to survey the trial. The devidramon had fed on something, a flock or a troop or an unfortunate group of digimon somewhere. There must be some sign, so they spread out to search.

Mikael saw sparse grass and remembered a time when there'd been more, and plentiful. Then he came across a place that had been picked clean and he wondered if a group had rested there. He saw no signs of a fire, but when he landed the earth was soft. But cold; the group of digimon, whatever they were, had moved on.

And, since the rest of the grass looked undisturbed, he assumed they were creatures of flight. Birds. Or insects. Or other angels: angels that did not call the temple on the mountain their home.

He took flight himself and continued to slowly search. He passed more grass, then stopped again. Some patches were charred, like the ashes of a fire attach had landed there. He landed again, and saw the grass had been pushed aside as well. A child dragging themselves to shelter, he assumed.

He found the child: a biyomon under a bush. Female, by the looks of her. And hurt. He touched her gently, assessing the damage. They'd all packed some data before they left in case the founded wounded survivors in need of help – or ran into trouble and were hurt themselves.

He coaxed the little ball to unwind and then feed into those wounds. They went, knitting the data back together. The eyes flickered: blue eyes under pink lids that vanished, appeared, and vanished again. Then they opened. The biyomon stared at him.

'I am Mikael,' Mikael said. 'I come from Angel's Temple.'

'Chantilly,' the biyomon breathed, before closing her eyes again.

**.**

Mikael carried her back and put her in the resting room. The other angemon returned as well, unhappy they'd found nothing of use. Most were pleased to find he had discovered someone – even if that someone may not be related at all. But there was one who looked at him similarly to those who mourned the loss of their prey. He was displeased Mikael had, once again, "saved the day".

Jealousy, Mikael mourned, was a sad and uncomfortable thing.

**.**

Chantilly awoke in the afternoon and explained her circumstances, and her words caused another stab of guilt to ail Mikael. She explained about how their Elder had received the light of digovolution, but not enough. Instead of growing larger wings, he became a grounded bird. He'd been unable to join them on their annual migration and was doomed to the valley's forest. And, considering the temperatures in the valley, it might be a death sentence.

Chantilly feared it would be a death sentence for their Elder.

Then she explained the flight. A new leader taking up the mantle. Them resting in a field of grass on the first day – which he'd seen and stopped and then passed. Then taking flight on a new day, only to be surrounded by the devidramon. The magical fires they'd unleashed to defend themselves – the cinders that had fallen. How she'd been at some point struck out of the sky to fall, and how she'd gained consciousness to find no-one around.

She'd then dragged herself in several stops to the thicket and then collapsed, where Mikael had found her.

**.**

The angemon set out again. Now that they had a direction and a destination, they could search. And they were searching for the rest of the biyomon, but it was unlikely any would be found. Mikael did not go with them. He spoke to kudamon first. Their elder like the once-biyomon in the valley forest was. Even if they were mainly led by others.

Kudamon, if no-one else, would understand Chantilly's agony, and her wish.

'To bring an evolved biyomon to the temple,' the elder repeated. 'Perhaps…'

Kudamon sounded both sympathetic and doubtful. And Mikael could not blame him. The temple had never been for any but the angels and, at rare times, guests recovering from various ordeals. Like Chantilly.

'Maybe somewhere else?' Mikael suggested. There were many places a bird would be more comfortable. 'It would be worth going to him, in any case. Particularly if we don't find the others.'

'Yes…' the elder agreed. 'And it is cruel to let him freeze in the winter. At least temporary, bring him back.'

And Mikael took flight that evening towards the nearby valley forest.


End file.
